Chapter 9: Princeling, Part 4

Raffé took the bundle thrust at him and tried to dress quickly. He was far more used to the clothes of a clerk than those of a soldier. But when he put them on, the leggings, shirt, undertunic, and tunic all fit well enough and were actually easier to move about in. The boots he pulled on were a touch too big, but they would do for the present.

"All set, there?" Telmé asked and then with a brisk nod led the way out of the room and through the halls of the castle.

As a visitor, Raffé had not seen much of it. The heart of the castle was shaped like an octagon—was three, actually, forming an enormous tower, each smaller than the one below. There were three floors to every octagon, and the rest of the enormous castle sprawled out from each side: the Hall of War, the Hall of Magic, the stables, the smithies, barracks, dorms, schools, and dozens more. Large enough to be practically a small city all its own, Castle Guldbrandsen was the heart of the kingdom and the last defense should they ever lose the fragile war against the monsters and magic they constantly fought.

They walked along the outer wall of the second octagon, passing all manner of people: servants, lords, soldiers, visitors, messengers … Telmé acknowledged all of them but did not stop. He eventually abandoned the walkway and led Raffé inside then down flights of stairs and through more dim-lit halls until they reached the enormous, lavish great hall. It was relatively empty, filled with not more than perhaps a hundred people scattered about in various groups, voices quiet as they talked. Fires were arranged in various pits across it, giving the enormous, echoing room a bit of warmth. Telmé led him to a cluster of important-looking men standing in front of the king's table at the head of the room. "Hail, Legion."

One of them, a brawny man with a shock of curly red hair, lifted a hand in greeting. "Hail, Prince Telmé. I see your Princeling is up and about, and fair morning to you."

"Fair morning," Raffé murmured.

Telmé rested a hand on his shoulder and gestured to each of the four men in turn. "Captain Morré of the Royal Guard," he said, pointing to the handsome, red-haired man. Beside him was a large man with a rough, wild sort of air about him. He had black hair threaded with silver and blood-red eyes. "Ilkay Thrace, though we all call him Moon. He is leader of the Wolves recently come down from the mountains to join the Legion." Telmé waved his hand in the air, looking at Moon. "I thought you and Dalibor were leaving this morning?"

Moon smiled, a bit of tooth in it though mostly he seemed amused. "Our ship suffered some damage in the night—all this damnable hail. We should be leaving within the hour, though."

"You're a Wolf of the Moon?" Raffé asked, surprised.

"Aye, Princeling," Moon said. "My blood heart is right miffed because of you. Not often a slip of a thing like you shows him up." He winked.

Telmé snickered. "Serves him right." He pointed to the third man, the only one to come close to Moon's height and broad build. They all seemed to be about Telmé's forty-odd years, except the man before him, who seemed older than Raffé but younger than the rest.

He was handsome without being pretty, a rough-cut soldier so unlike the soft, well-dressed men Raffé knew better. His hair was the color of wheat, the ends jagged as though only just beginning to recover from being poorly cut. His eyes … Raffé could not look away. They swirled with colors exactly as he had always heard. At present, they were mostly green. "You're a dragon," he said. "I mean a Dragoon."

The cluster of men laughed, and the blond-haired man bowed. "Aye, Princeling." His words were spoken quietly. There was a note of huskiness to his voice, but Raffé remembered hearing somewhere that Dragoons generally had rough voices. "Captain Alrin Westor of his Majesty's Dragoons," Alrin said and swept a playful bow. He looked up, his eyes mostly green but constantly shifting through other colors. "An honor to make your acquaintance, Princeling."

"You weren't kidding about me hearing that everywhere," Raffé said, making a face, not quite rolling his eyes.

The last man in the group snickered and swept a bow himself, his long, blue-black hair spilling over his shoulder. His eyes were a tawny brown and set in a face that was delicately pretty, his severely thin build in stark contrast to the broader men around him. Telmé gestured. "This is Captain Boris Karr of the Shadowmarch."

The Shadowmarch, one of a very limited set permitted to use dark magic. It was said they could see in the dark as easily as in the day. Was his mysterious Cambord a Shadowmarch?

He shoved thoughts of Cambord away because if he tried to solve that mystery he would drive himself mad. At any rate, it was foolish to assume that Cambord wanted to be known to him. One night was one night, and yearning for more was just a sign of Raffé's naïveté.

"Come along, Princeling, before this lot starts trying to fill your ears with gossip," Telmé said.

"Have fun, Princeling," Morré said, and the other men laughed and offered their partings, exchanging a look Raffé feared he understood all too well.

Once they were well away, he said, "Surely the Princes of the Blood are too serious an affair for such things as pranks."

Telmé threw his head back and laughed. "Pranks, perhaps, but that does not mean we do not have our fun."

Raffé sighed but could not find it in him to be upset. It was already clear, though he scarce dared believe it, that whatever the Princes did would be nothing like the malicious pranks he'd endured in school. He still wasn't certain he wasn't dreaming. People saw him and spoke to him and acted like it was perfectly normal for him to be there. He was afraid to get his hopes up that he might belong after all, but he always had been a fool.